 | by
Alec in Michigan |
I looked back at the two men, who were now aiming the rifle at me.
The tall suicide fence began to tear itself apart, as gunfire sprayed the observation deck.
Wait a minute.
That gun couldn’t reach this distance. There was another shooter.
I didn’t have time to look around. I hurled myself to the ground, as more fire came flying towards me.
Suddenly, there was a familiar shrill voice.
I said it once more.
Crap.
“Hold your fire!” She wasn’t speaking to me. She talking into a two way radio.
The gunfire stopped.
“Get up, and put your hands in the air. Slide the gun over to me.”
I turned my head to see she was wielding two Colt 45 pistols, one in each hand.
I stood up.
Her long brunette hair blew across her face, which was very attractive, save for a long, dark scar stemming from her left eye, all the way down to the woman’s jaw. She holstered one of the 45’s, and picked up my Desert Eagle. She weighed the steel in her hands, and smiled.
“Nice choice of weapon. Now put your hands up, Frank.”
I obeyed, and began to speak.
“How do you know my name?”
She cackled, her head rocking back with the action.
“How do I know your name? How could I not know your name, that's a better question! How could I not know about the famous Philly officer who was proclaimed a hero in the ‘95 shoot out at Philly Police headquarters. Although, tragically, his fiancé was killed in the crossfire.”
My blood was turning sour.
“I knew allll about ‘95, Frank. In fact, I believe a close friend of mine organized the job. But, all that is not important. We should not dwell on the past.” She paused.
“Although, Frank, you might want to dwell on it for as long as you can, because soon, you won’t even have your memories. You will be as cold as the dirt you’ll be buried under.”
I stood still, but my heart was beating out of my chest.
“Goodbye, Frank Packard.”
She raised the two guns.
“One last thing, that you might want to know.” I said.
“Oh?” She raised her eyebrows.
“It’s DETECTIVE!” I shouted, and charged her.
“Wha--!”
The gun went off, and I felt the bullet fly past my arm. She fought hard, twisting and biting and thrashing, but I was stronger.
Then, I made a mistake that could have been fatal.
Her arm with the Desert Eagle got loose, and she shoved the gun against my head.
“Die, you son of a--”
Her last word was cut off by the firing of a gun.
The gun dropped from my head, and she slumped against the concrete.
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